Ceasefire rumors in July prompted widespread cautious optimism across news, social media, and conversations, briefly lifting spirits amid famine. Temporary reopening of shops and slight price drops made bread momentarily attainable. Families and neighbors imagined silence, warm meals, and relief; a war widow with seven children hoped to end their suffering. The next morning negotiations collapsed; headlines announced failure and no truce. Shops closed again, flour disappeared, and prices skyrocketed. Promised aid convoys did not materialize on the ground, leaving empty trucks and unmet needs. The fleeting hope was replaced by deeper despair as hunger and helplessness returned.
I woke up one morning in July to a flurry of messages lighting up my phone. Every news channel, every social media post, every conversation buzzed with cautious optimism. Negotiations progressing well, the headlines declared. Truce imminent, Massive aid convoy preparing to enter. At that moment, we were deep in the throes of famine; some days, we ate nothing at all.
You can imagine the cautious joy that flickered in our hearts, the way hope travelled through our messages. Friends wrote to me, their words trembling with tentative relief. Could this really be the end? one asked. Will we remember what safety feels like? Will there finally be bread? We dared to dream. We imagined the silence of ceasefire, the taste of warm bread, the comfort of a full meal.
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